Virtual Heaven, Redux

by Taylor Kole

  His heart thumped in knocks powerful enough to pump torrents of water from a sinking ship. His neck remained proportionate, but a roll of his head revealed its added girth. Without looking, he sensed the enlarged circumference of his thighs and calves.

  His teammates stood around him, wearing orange and navy blue football uniforms, augmented by the full pads underneath, and matching cleats and gloves. A few players wore helmets; others held them. A room of athletes, that were previously out-of-shape programmers, bobbed in rhythmic jigs all around him. A palpable energy filled the room, melted into his skin, and coalesced in his chest.

  A broad man with orange hair hanging down to his shoulders noticed Alex observing him, and nodded. Alex recognized Song from their first encounter, the Asian who orated from chairs. Except this version of Song had gained a hundred and twenty-five pounds and fifteen inches in height. His face and his bright orange hair were the only two clues that this was the same guy.

  The players focused on a coach who yelled about pride and concentration, about never giving up, about keeping a level head.

  Through the locker room’s concrete exterior, the stadium crowd’s collective voices produced a susurration of energy, a cadence willing him to perform in a game he’d never before considered playing.

  Like a boxer before a bout, Alex swayed his shoulders to the crowd’s hum. A powerful hand clasped his shoulder and turned him. The hand belonged to Jason from the tram, who wore the number twenty—a number assigned to running backs. This Jason stood at the same height and with much the same countenance as the previously rotund one; nothing else remained. Black dreadlocks hung to his shoulders. His face had transformed from a round, greasy pie-eater to that of a square-jawed Marine.

  “So, what do you think?” Jason asked, his wide smile revealing a mouthful of diamond encrusted teeth. “You’re gonna be fine, my dude.” He laughed. “You should see the dumb smile on your face.”

  Was Alex smiling? Had he arrived that way? After testing his facial muscles, Alex relaxed his perma-grin.

  The coach yelled and waved his arms, directing everyone out of the locker room. “Let’s go! Come on, men! Let’s go, let’s go!”

  “Dude, let’s go have some fun,” Jason said as he affixed his helmet, banged on Alex’s shoulder pads, and joined the mass exodus.

  Alex had difficulty fitting his head into his helmet, but once finished, he fell in line with the group.

  “One play at a time!”

  “Don’t let Stevens get hot!”

  “Aaaagggghhhh!”

  Alex’s first movement unveiled the totality of the virtual reality tune-up. His legs were as thick as fire logs yet light as air, almost pulling themselves forward. He held his hands in front of his helmet as he jogged. Through the opening of his mask he saw two gloved crushers attached to arms etched with veins and subterranean muscle.

  Someone next to him asked if he had ever played wide receiver or if he even knew what that meant. The words sounded distant and irrelevant. He was too busy withholding the urge to sprint, leap, lunge, dive, grab, tumble. Had any human ever been as powerful as he was right then?

  The steel double-doors crashed open, drawing in thunderous vibrations that rattled every bone and strummed every artery in Alex.

  Once through the door, he hooted with all his might and loved that the frenzy of the crowd snuffed out his voice. The open, outdoor stadium allowed the sun’s rays to blanket the eighty-thousand screaming fans with warmth. A steady breeze carried the smell of fresh cut grass.

  The realism of the game’s attendees amazed Alex. He considered the possibility that these people were really here, logged in somewhere, but there were too many for that to be true. As he took in the tumult, he spotted a section of fans wearing jerseys with the number eighty-seven, waving signs with his name on them. He double-checked himself, and sure enough, he wore number eighty-seven. Jogging to the sideline, he wondered if anyone had ever died from elation overdose.

  “Everyone take your spot on the bench,” the coach said through his helmet. Alex’s transformed co-workers obeyed and he followed. Industrial water-spritzing fans oscillated behind the benches, tables of Gatorade in between, chanting cheerleaders beyond.

  Three players from his team trotted to midfield and met three of the security players, whose uniforms were similar to the Dallas Cowboys: navy blue and white.

  Jason, Song, and Denise (who now wore a flat top and resembled an Olympic sprinter), were the programmers’ team captains.

  The security officers won the coin toss. After Carl’s booming kickoff, the defense took the field.

  Fans bellowed their approval at every snap. The spirit of camaraderie between the teams never deviated—as opponents helped each other up and congratulated one another on well-executed plays. The crowd, along with Alex, loved every minute of it.

  The security team drove the ball from the twenty, past the fifty, and punted. Then the coach’s voice returned inside his helmet. “Okay, offense. Let’s get out there.”

  Alex watched the offensive half of his team run onto the field. He had never been so eager to see a game played.

  “Alex, that’s you bud,” Denise’s voice came through his helmet.

  Yeah, I guess that is, he thought as he rose and jogged to join them. The crowd’s thunderous bawl refreshed his anticipation. He stepped into the team’s huddle.

  “Alex?”

  “Can you hear me?” Alex asked.

  “Sure can,” Denise replied. “We want to open with a sneak play. The last thing they’ll expect is us getting your sweet buns involved right away. You run straight. Keep your eyes on the distance marker to your right. At twenty-five yards down the field, angle toward the center and look for the ball. If things go as planned, I’ll put it right in your hands.”

  He’d played catch, but he’d never run a route and been targeted for a reception.

  Starting in elementary school, he always landed in the bottom three chosen for contact sports. Kids tended to think his silent nature meant he was stupid, but it actually stemmed from intense consideration and deep interest.

  Clenching his fist, he watched as his forearm muscles bulged and reshaped the flesh. Lifting himself onto his toes, he felt a power and dexterity he’d only fantasized about.

  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  “That’s my boy,” Kole encouraged.

  “Give ’em hell,” chimed another.

  The huddle dispersed with a ritualistic, “Break!” and a simultaneous clap.

  A green circle of light showed Alex where to line up. He jogged to it and checked his fan section. Finding them glued to him, he imparted a salute. They jumped about hysterically, waving their signs of support.

  The green circle disappeared while he stood inside of it. He focused his mind and assumed what he hoped was a proper stance: elbows clutched to his sides, hands at right angles, knees bent, body tilted forward, supported by the balls of his feet.

  His defender lined up five yards in front of him. The man talked trash, but Alex blotted out the words. He focused on the yard markers and visualized his route.

  “Set. Hut, hut!”

  Alex exploded out of his stance.

  Utilizing his new body’s strength, he blew past his defender. The G-force of his strides quaked his cheeks. Wind whistled past the helmet’s ear holes. He heard the muffled contact of his cleats on the ground, felt the propulsion of his modified form.

  Only one man remained in front of him as he slanted. Two more steps and he would turn and search for the ball.

  His defensive counterpart seemed to intuit what approached; the player ran toward Alex at the perfect time to intercept.

  Worry wormed into his mind. What if this plan was a setup to hurt the new guy? A conspiratorial hazing where they would snap his legs or shatter his ribs, and then heckle him about it not being real?

  He thrust the speculation aside, focusing on what he knew: his teammates had placed trust in him. Looking over his sh
oulder, he found the ball in flight.

  Alex’s calculations were inconclusive as to what would connect first—the ball to his hands or the defender’s body to one of his kneecaps.

  The rotating pigskin glided within reach, and he stretched out his arms. Every man, woman, and child in the stadium stood. The volume muffled. Time slowed. Only him and that chunk of spinning leather remained. It connected against his hands with an audible thump. His strong fingers secured it like a fly dive-bombing a sticky-strip.

  Instead of the roar he expected, the stadium fell silent.

  Remembering the diving defender, the fans presumably held their breath in anticipation of an impending collision.

  On a subconscious level, Alex pictured his opponent in flight, aimed at his knees. Using that blueprint, he hurdled the air. His drag foot’s toes scraped over the diving defender’s helmet. His opponent’s hand connected with his thigh and tried to wrestle him down, but Alex’s momentum powered him through.

  Alex extended his arm out and achieved balance. He hopped twice on one foot, regained his form, and ran like Usain Bolt.

  The crowd erupted.

  After Alex crossed the goal line, half of his teammates met him in the end zone to celebrate the perfectly executed play.

  His eyes bloated as if pumped with air; his stretching smile accentuated the taste of the rubber mouth guard. He hadn’t been this full of wonder since he ran his first software program.

  This was magic, pure and simple.

  Leaving the field, he pointed to his fans, causing some to stomp their feet and dance as if acknowledged by Elvis. Others chanted his name. As he looked away, he jerked his attention back—had a woman just lifted her shirt?

  Every player on his team smacked his shoulder pads as he returned to his side of the field. And he received one solid smack on the ass from the masculine version of Denise.

  In the spirit of the game, some opposing players came over to compliment his play. Mr. Robertson, whose build had actually slimmed to fit his position, stopped Alex, demanded a high-five before returning across the field.

  Alex threw down his helmet, snatched a cup of Gatorade, and gulped it as he sat on the grass, trying to slow his breathing.

  Those kids on the playground would have given entire Pokémon collections to pick this uber Alex, first.

  The rest of the game proceeded with similar vigor. The programmers won for the second year in a row, the final scoreboard: 27-21. Jason Johnson’s moves and vision, Denise’s play calling, and Song’s defensive tenacity and leadership were the dominant factors. Those, and the miraculous hurdle on the first play that gave their team the lead.

  After the contest, broadcasters made announcements, fans exited the stadium, and players from both teams socialized midfield. The brutish, Amazonian version of Denise plopped next to Alex.

  His head turned. “Am I dreaming?”

  “Nah, this is way better than any dream—it’s a touch better than real life.”

  Alex inhaled deeply. More than a touch better. Virtual reality had progressed for decades, but most in the field had discarded full submersion as a fantasy. He felt unworthy to work for a company that offered… this.

  Denise squeezed his knee. “We’re all logged into the Lobby for a three-and-a-half-hour cycle.” She pointed to the high-definition scoreboard.

  Alex saw the normal markers: home, visitor, timeouts, etcetera. In the bottom right corner, a timer counted down: 3:09, 3:08, 3:07.

  “Great catch out there today,” Denise said.

  Alex flushed. “Thanks.”

  “I was surprised when you didn’t get creamed.” She play-punched his arm as he chuckled.

  “That makes two of us,” Alex said. He spotted Jason Johnson jogging over to a couple in their late fifties among the crowd. He hugged them, handed the man a football. They all smiled. The woman kept her hand on Jason’s back as he chatted with the man.

  “Once you complete your training,” Denise said, “you’ll be able to check out—”

  “What’s he doing over there?” Alex asked as he nodded toward Jason. “I’ve been waiting to tell him what a good game he played. He helped make football fun for me.”

  Denise shaded her eyes, lowered her voice, and in a tone sprinkled with revulsion said, “Weird stuff. That’s what he’s doing. Those are replicas of his parents. He snuck them into the code.” She tsked and shook her head. “White people are crazy.”

  Jason’s computer-generated father smiled, slapped his son’s shoulder pad.

  “They both died when he was sixteen. Car accident,” Denise said. “Apparently, he was a star running back in high school. Top recruit in Texas. You can see that when he plays.” She leaned in and lowered her volume even further. “To be honest with you, I think what he’s doing is sick.”

  Alex stared into her butch face and frowned. She obviously had not tasted the bile of losing a loved one. Alex had ingested bowls of pain, full servings of mourning and despair, before, during, and after his freshman year in high school. His older brother Simon, a fit, handsome and kind twenty-year-old had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Prior to that, Alex hadn’t even known it affected men—or that it killed them. Simon’s death, less than a year later, taught Alex that the Grim Reaper kicked in doors indiscriminately. No rhyme to life. No reason for it all. No plans for each and every one of us.

  Looking back at Jason, who wrapped an arm around the older woman’s waist, Alex swallowed. He would give anything to hug his brother one more time.

  The mirth on Jason’s face shone honestly, so unmistakable it compared to the love of a woman holding her newborn moments after giving birth. If Denise thought that was sick, he worried that she lacked a fundamental understanding of happiness.

  “Thirty seconds,” a booming voice announced over the stadium speakers.

  Denise placed her hand on Alex’s forearm, drawing his attention. “Brace yourself for that horrible pain. A few seconds later, you’ll wake up in the Atrium.” She released him and lay on her back. “Just grit your teeth.”

  Alex opened his mouth to reply, but it had gone drier than the inside of a funeral urn. Then came the tearing of his lungs, the scorching of his vital organs, and the grinding of his bones, followed by being crushed to ash and sucked through a straw.

  Chapter Four

  The elation of Alex’s first visit to the Lobby survived the night and upon waking, he was filled with an intense desire to get back inside.

  He’d never been a morning person, but if this was how he felt—thankful that the night had ended so the day in this new world could begin—he understood how some people woke pre-dawn, dressed, and headed out the door for a five-mile jog.

  Job orientation was on Alex’s itinerary, and he was pumped.

  Alex met Carl at the tram, and together, they reported to an office at the Atrium’s north end.

  Alex was surprised to find his neighbor, Brad, sitting behind a desk, reading the Wall Street Journal. Brad was short and thick, like a collegiate wrestler. Bald, but handsome. He had a piece of jerky hanging out of his mouth.

  “Welcome to orientation, gentlemen. My name is Brad Finder. Hey, Alex,” To Carl, he added, “Alex is my neighbor.” He folded the paper and placed it on the desk. “Please sit.” He motioned to two chairs opposite him. Opened laptops were positioned on their side of the desk..

  Alex and Carl did as instructed.

  During his hours of pacing the previous night, Alex wrote questions to ask at orientation; each carried additional subquestions. But after combing over the list while on the tram ride, he narrowed them down to two: When could he return to the Lobby, and, when could he review the Lobby’s code?

  “Today,” Brad said, “I’m going to give you a little background about Eridu and then let you loose on your computers.” He paused as if a thought struck him. “But really, I don’t get the computer thing. You type, type, type, and stare at a screen, yet some of you guys get seriously amped about that.”

/>   For Alex, the reason was simple. In code, when you instructed a command to go to line forty-seven, it obeyed. If it didn’t, you searched the code, located the error, and returned it to a sensible order. Nice and predictable. Unlike the real world. The real world gave you a new friend with a hidden agenda, a mate with a closed heart, a job that rewarded being subversive.

  Real life gave your older brother—a young man as strong as oak—breast cancer, and whittled him down until you’re sitting at his bedside during his post-chemo nap, wailing.

  Code made sense and allowed Alex to create limitless opportunity. Reality involved pain and chaos, with death the only possible end.

  “You don’t know, huh?” Brad said. “Anyway, over the next week or so, you’ll learn the history of this company, our security procedures, basic information about the facility, and about the Lobby itself.”

  Just hearing the name caused a physical reaction in Alex. He raised his hand.

  “Yes, Alex?”

  “When do we get to go back inside the Lobby?”

  “Well,” Brad said, “believe it or not, I knew you’d ask that. The answer, unfortunately, is a bit complicated. Being in management, you’ll earn your credits faster than Carl here. Broumgard also allows cleared employees to purchase Lobby time at a discounted rate, and the majority of us spend every available dollar on vacations.”

  Carl eked his hand up to his shoulder.

  Brad acknowledged him.

  “What happens if someone is in there, and the power goes out?”

  “Great question, Carl. It’s never been empirically tested, mind you, but in all likelihood, you’d rush back into your body. Broumgard decided the best way to deal with the electricity issue was to never allow the power to go out. The Atrium has a backup system with eleven levels of protection. I’ve heard Ms. Capaldi says it best: ‘We could be hit dead-on by a nuclear warhead, followed by multiple electromagnetic-pulse devices, and we’d still have four levels of power protections.’”